AKA Mission Psychopath to Hero (Or not)
by Not Just a Nerd
Summary: In which the "what if Jessica had chosen to stay with Kilgrave and turn him into a better person" is explored. Jessica Jones fanfic. Introspection.


**Disclaimer: I do not own AKA Jessica Jones or any of the characters.**

 **Warning: Language. And portrayal of PTSD, abuse. TRIGGER WARNINGS.**

Sometimes she still feels like this is yet another nightmare, and she is going to wake up any second now. Now. How about now? No? Okay.

So. Where was she? Right. The Mission Turn a Psychopath into a Hero by staying with him. With said psychopath staring at her expectantly, waiting to be told what to do.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Or have they, really? If she walks out of here right now, wouldn't he make someone off themselves?

He might not be telling her what to do, but he's not leaving many options open either.

"Jessica?" He asks, sitting at the edge of the table, with the scumbag they are dealing with sitting before the computer where he does his sick little shit.

"Make him write a confession and turn himself over to the authorities." She says, a tiny voice at the back of her head wondering if using a criminal to mind-control another criminal into justice is the right thing to do. After all, she has these special friends who can reach into the minds of anyone, anytime, but they never do, do they?

"Can we go home now?" He asks, and it takes all of her superstrength to say yes.

 _(No. No. No. Touch don't me. Oh God. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.)_

When she sleeps, she sees herself. She sees blood in her hands in the unearthly color of purple, and bolts upright in her bed, in her room, where she grew up, back when life was normal and happy and she didn't have this dark past to escape. Sweat sticks to her eyebrows and above her upper lip, and she feels so fucking tired. Redemption is a goddamn mirage, and guilt is a bottomless ocean. Thankfully, there's the liquid that saves all- another bottle of scotch.

"I know you liked it", he whispers in her ears suddenly, and she jumps away from the bed in horror, the sound of glass and liquor hitting the floor piercing through her ears between the unsteady beat of her heart. She closes her eyes, as if that would ever make any of it go away, as if it wouldn't keep playing the images in a loop.

"Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane", she whispers between bated breath, but it doesn't work anymore. Not when she's in that very place and with the very monster who has made her this mess. "Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane", she tries again, more frantic, more desperate, as she feels his arms around her shoulders and his breath on her neck. "No. No. No. No." She repeats to herself. This isn't happening. This isn't real. "Come on, Jessica." Tears slip out from her clasped eyes and the liquid feels like blood, trailing down her cheeks.

"Jessica?"

She punches the wall, the bed, the door, the pillows, everything and anything in her way, till she is worn out enough to snap out of the flashback and rest her exhausted form on the floor, against the bed.

She hears footsteps, and she knows this time it is real. Shit. That bastard now gets to enjoy watching what he did to her, seeing how he broke her. Goddamn him.

 _(No. No. No. Touch don't me. Oh God. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.)_

He enters her room at eight in the morning when she answers his knock on her now broken door- which is the last thing she needed in a house with Kilgrave. Shit. "I made you breakfast in bed", he announces, placing the tray of pancakes and waffles in front of her.

She wants to laugh and scream at the same time. She knows the cycle of abuse oh too well. Control, consume, destroy. And when the prey slips away, charm, plead, show changes, lure her back in again. She isn't going to go back to him. Not willingly, at least.

"I'm not hungry", she announces and reaches for her backup liquor stash. Heaven knows she's gonna need it to get through the day.

 _(No. No. No. Touch don't me. Oh God. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.)_

She finds herself jerking away from him too many times now, because she can no longer tell when it is real and when it is in her head. He looks hurt and proud at the same time, and she so wants to break his jaw that instant. Instead, she chants the mantra that doesn't really work anymore, and tries her hardest to ground herself to where she is, to when she is. It works, most of the times at least.

Sometimes she still hears him whispering in her ears, tempting her to do the awful things he would have done, while she tells him to do the hero thing. How very symbiotic. How very fucked up.

There are black bags forming under her eyes and she hides them with awful make-up with all the shame of an abuse-victim. The bruises are inside her mind, and no goddamn pill or therapy can heal those. Thankfully, liquor can, at least for a little while. The numbness stays long enough before the despair sets back in and she has to pull herself back together, tell herself to stay strong and do what she is doing- redeem herself and all that shit.

The nights are hell, though. She can't step into that room and not think of her dead family. It's her fault. Again.

No, nobody else will suffer because of her. She will get Hope out and show Killgrave the high road, and then she will be out of here any day now. Now. How about now? No? Okay.

 _(No. No. No. Touch don't me. Oh God. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.)_

She takes a cue out of Inception and decides to keep a little cork of a bottle of wine with her, to figure out which is real and which is in her head. Every time she has a nightmare now, she knows it isn't real. And it still goddamn hurts. Every time the flashback starts, her hands sometimes form a clenched fist, some other times she holds the cork tight in her palm, turning it over and over again, as if its a lifeline, and repeats the date. It works, most of the time, at least. Not a goddamn thing is fail-proof in her goddamn life.

He cooks her dinner sometimes. They watch telly together. The temptation to forgive and forget would be too high, if not for the fact that he's a, you know, murderous prick and all. She would feel sympathy for the child who was never loved and who never learnt to love, but she's had her fair share of tragedy too, and she knows that the world failing you is not an excuse to be a dick to the world yourself. You're a dick because you chose to be one, it's as simple as that.

Men like him do not change. He's going to go back to his old ways any time she leaves, and she can no longer bring herself to believe otherwise, not when she can see the barely restraint beast in him shine in his eyes that hold her reflection. It makes her want to puke.

Every fibre of her being is weary and disgusted and she just can't take it anymore. She cannot save the world if she cannot save herself.

So she will save herself. She has a plan. The sandwich saved the little girl, and his favorite flood and anaesthetic will save the sandwich now. This is what Jessica would do.

 **A/N: My point is, she eventually would have come to the same conclusion as she did in that episode.**


End file.
